


and you were strong and i was not

by tailysnaily



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, because mickey will not allow it, ian is not going to some nuthouse, mickey milkovich is a nugget who needs hugs and kisses, spoilers for 4x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1537289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tailysnaily/pseuds/tailysnaily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Milkovich didn't put up with bullshit, and telling him what was impossible was bullshit. Mickey knew what impossible was. This wasn't it. </p><p>Mickey is a sad, angry, loving, little potty mouth and Ian Gallagher is the most important person to him and they need a happy ending or I'll explode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you were strong and i was not

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Shameless fic so sorry if something doesn't make sense. I wrote it at 3am while crying about Gallavich. I just want them to be happy. Mickey and Ian need to be happy.

Nobody fucking told him what was impossible. Nobody, and definitely not Fiona Gallagher. She could fuck right off if she wanted to tell him that his only option was to drop Ian off at some nuthouse, that he couldn’t keep Ian with him, safe under his roof. Mickey Milkovich had faced impossibilities before, and taking care of a hurting Firecrotch was not one of them. It wasn’t even close.

If you had told Mickey three years ago that he would come out in public, in front of his dad, in front of his family, he would have said it was impossible. And then he would have beat the shit out of you with his sister’s scorching curling iron, right before shoving it up your ass, _because are you tryin’ to fuckin’ call me a faggot, you fuckin’ moron?_

If you had told Mickey two years ago that he would be in love with Ian Gallagher, he would have called it impossible, laughed in your face, and asked how much Ian had paid you to say that. Then he would have taken you by the throat and slammed you through a brick wall, like some violent Kool-Aid commercial. 

If you had told Mickey a year ago that he would be pleading with Fiona Gallagher, insisting that she let her brother stay with him, insisting he would nurse him to good health, that he wouldn’t let anyone else but them look after him, he would have said it was impossible and then broken your face. But only after demanding why the fuck Ian needed his help, why was he sick, what had gone wrong( _are you fuckin' threatening him?_ ). Because loving - and keeping - that boy was dangerous, and Mickey Milkovich never picked a fight he couldn’t win, never started a battle when he had no one to call if he was outnumbered.

(Maybe the only time he had was when he fucked a boy who had come at him with a tire iron. Maybe involving himself with Ian Gallagher had been the beginning of a struggle – a stupid, sweet struggle – that he could never stop. Like an addiction. But not as unhealthy, he thinks. His cigarette addiction made it hard to breathe when he ran. His Ian addiction made him feel like he could run. Anywhere he wanted.)

If you had told Mickey six months ago that he was going to have a chance at a life with Ian, that he could try with him, Mickey would have choked out an, “That’s impossible,” because hoping for things like that made him ache. But he could never admit that, they could never be safe together in their shit neighborhood, they could never have what they both wanted so bad, and it would only end in someone’s death. So he would just let you off with a warning, too tired to be tough. And he would go home to his whore wife that night, and drunkenly wish that Firecrotch’s flaming hair and muscled body were lying next to him in her place.

So Mickey Milkovich had faced impossibilities, and he had overcome them. He knew what they looked like. Staying home with that stupid boy, and loving him until he wasn’t so depressed anymore, that wasn’t a hardship. He would do it gladly, as long as he could keep him, whole and unhurt, in his bed and in his protecting arms.  
This wasn’t impossible. Letting him go was. 


End file.
